


Respite

by northern



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Feels, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Sheriff Stilinski Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northern/pseuds/northern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light over the sink is on, casting yellow-green shadows into the hallway as John Stilinski lets himself into his home, careful not to jangle his keys too loudly, even after all these years. Ilona was always a light sleeper, but Stiles sleeps through almost anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> Working title: Derek Needs A Hug.
> 
> Thank you so much to eledhwenlin and gonergone for beta.

The light over the sink is on, casting yellow-green shadows into the hallway as John Stilinski lets himself into his home, careful not to jangle his keys too loudly, even after all these years. Ilona was always a light sleeper, but Stiles sleeps through almost anything.

The sink’s light means that John will very probably not be alone when he goes into the kitchen. A couple of times he's found the kitchen empty, even with the light on, but those have been the nights when Stiles isn't sleeping. He knows, because each time on the way to his bedroom he's seen the light under Stiles's door. Knocking on the door and telling Stiles to get some sleep before school might not actually make him sleep, but at least John's not pretending he can't see, can't hear the soft murmur. John is through with pretending.

His kitchen isn't empty tonight. Derek Hale is sitting at the table, head in his hands. John can see the outline of him, the way he's not even glancing toward the door as John heels his shoes off, hangs his coat. He knows Derek won't flinch, though. Derek never flinches when John comes into the kitchen, always knows he's there.

He gets rid of his service weapon before walking into the kitchen. There was a time when he wouldn't have, would still be suspicious of Derek and his intentions and put it on the counter along with his belt, just to have it within reach, but he's pretty sure he knows what Derek is looking for in his house now and it's not to hurt him, and not to hurt his son.

"It's late," John says quietly as he slides his belt off, rolling it up and depositing it on the counter.

Derek scrubs at his face with his hands, the slight rasp from his stubble the only other noise in the night-still room. The clock on the microwave is blinking, 03:24, and John sighs as he steps over to the table, puts his palm over the side of Derek's face and tilts his head into his own side, letting Derek rest his face against John's ribs. Derek's almost violent exhale isn't unexpected. John has never seen him cry, but he thinks this might be something similar for this young man, this boy. He stands there, stroking Derek's hair, never acknowledging the small tremors he can feel as Derek presses closer, breathing into his shirt.

John has long since stopped trying to get Derek to articulate what he wants, what the problem is and why he comes to _John_ , exactly. The times he's tried to make him talk have only ever resulted in Derek not waiting in his kitchen for several weeks, and John never wants to make Derek feel like coming to John is something to be avoided. He supposes Derek has no one else, no adult he can trust. There are a lot of teenagers, his own son among them, who hang around Derek and John used to think that was strange, suspect, until he finally figured out that Derek had lost everything and this was his way of trying to salvage his life. Trying to make connections with people who were young, who hadn't gone off to find their own set of friends yet, was... a strategy, sure, but counting on teenagers for emotional maturity was extremely risky. Then again, Derek is in John's kitchen at the moment, hanging on to John as if it would hurt him to let go.

John breathes, feeling the long night behind him, Frank Iverson's angry cursing from the drunk tank as the door clanged shut, Maria Rivera's young daughter crying with huge, hulking sobs as Sanders tried to console her. And the paperwork. There are a lot of people hurting in this world, but John wishes they would all stop hurting themselves and other people and making him do the paperwork. God, the paperwork.

This one, this hurting boy in his arms, has had it worse than most. John doesn't know about all of it ― in fact he suspects there is a lot going on that he doesn't know about ― but he thinks he knows enough for this. "You'll be okay, son," he whispers, gently cupping Derek's forehead in his palm.

Derek's body tenses, and he draws several sharp breaths. The words hurt him, although John doesn't know if it's the kindness or the choice of words that does it. John does believe what he's saying, though ― he thinks that Derek will need a little more time than many others, but that he will eventually be able to live his life enjoying the small bits of happiness that comes his way the way people do. If coming by for some human contact is what he needs to help him there, John is glad to be someone Derek's chosen. Glad that Derek is able to reach out.

By the time Derek is finished with his almost crying and his knuckles look less like he's trying to crush John's shirt with his hands the clock is blinking 03:52. John's feet and back hurt, but he can stand there for a bit longer if the kid needs him to. It's not long before Derek twitches minutely, though, and pulls his pale and tired face away from where it feels as if he's left an imprint of frustration and sadness against John's body.

"I need to go," he says quietly and gets up, his gaze flickering around the room, over to where the stairs are. His movements are heavy, but he doesn't scrape the chair against the floor or make any other noise.

"Are you sure?" John asks. "I can make the couch up." Derek's never accepted in the past, but that doesn't mean he won't tonight.

Derek shakes his head. "Thank you," he says, and John is left wondering whether for the hug or for the offer of somewhere to sleep as Derek slips out through the back door and disappears into the darkness.

John locks up. He's reasonably sure that Derek locks the door after himself if he ever needs to leave before John comes home on the nights he waits in the kitchen, but at this point in his career he's incapable of ever going to bed without checking the doors and windows. On his way upstairs, stretching his arms above his head to try and get the kinks out of his shoulders, Stiles's door opens, his kid shuffling half-asleep on his way to the bathroom.

"You set your alarm, right?" John calls softly. "I need to sleep late."

Stiles mutters something unintelligible and waves his hand at him, disappearing behind the bathroom door. John smiles. His son has a home, and even though John spends less time than he'd like in it, Stiles feels safe here in the middle of the night ― doesn't even wake up all the way when he hears a voice behind him. They're not without their own problems and sorrows, Stiles and him, but they have a good home, a safe place. John is happy to share with people not as lucky, and he suspects Stiles is as well, in his own way. He's growing up well, better than John had feared after Ilona died.

His bedroom is cool, the air conditioning having done its work, as John slips gratefully into bed. He listens to the faint sounds of his son settling back into his own bed and turns onto his side, wishing he could hear someone punching a pillow downstairs, or maybe the living room TV, set to a soothing low volume for someone who has trouble sleeping. One of these nights he'll have to insist more on Derek staying. John knows that Stiles wouldn't mind having someone to keep him company for breakfast. Maybe it would even make Stiles eat more before school. And Derek could use more of a normal life than a hug in the middle of the night.

Sleeping is rarely difficult on nights like these, as long as he can block out the light of the moon, and later, the sun. Even though his sheets are the only things touching his skin, he can still feel Derek's harsh breathing into his side, his body language like a small child's, his trust that John could make what pained him go away absolute.

He stares into the close to full darkness provided by the blackout blinds, feeling exhaustion catching up with him. Next time, he thinks. Make him stay and sleep.


End file.
